


Bullets still kill motherfuckers

by Superheronerd_1



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, if the boss died in SR3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superheronerd_1/pseuds/Superheronerd_1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because the Boss survived everything doesn't mean that a bullet won't kill him. </p><p>Or, Johnny misses his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullets still kill motherfuckers

Johnny Gat was a man who broke for moments at a time, burying his face in the shoulder of his oldest friend, smell of gunpowder and laundry detergent filling his nose. He allowed himself to break when hands, scared, covered in both physical and metaphorical blood, rubbed his back and told him that he was only human. 

He always figured he was being selfish at those moments- Jesus, Playa had so much to do, to run. Yet he would allow Johnny to act like a bitch and not judge him. He only saw Playa break in between the lines, getting too reckless or driving worse than usual (which was pretty fucking hard to do). And Johnny would know and just let him shot bullets into corpses and scrap cars on the highway until eventually Johnny would rub his shoulders, squeeze his neck, let Playa break his fingers from holding on to tight like he was afraid Johnny would walk away from the Saints and leave him alone. 

Fucking hypocrite.

But now he doesn't have the shoulder to cry into, the hands to old because Jesus fucking Christ there isn't even a body. 

He can't hold his best friend's hand, he can't trace fingers over the tattoo on the Boss neck, or the stupid hammer head on the Boss’s hand he got because he thought sharks were cool. Johnny has his books now, books about life in the sea and whatnot. 

Johnny has all of it, the guns the books the fucking guilt of living while those who join the Saints die on a regular basis. Why did he accept being in charge, don't know. Maybe he liked how the worn out seat felt beneath him, or he likes focusing on the tiny and sloppy handwriting on order forms. 

Johnny leaned back into the bed, one that he automatically dubbed 'theirs'. Technically speaking, it was only Johnny's. But earlier, before the plane, it was both. Sometimes Johnny went into his bed, him into Johnny's. Blood stained cloths on the floor, rough hands holding on and more often then not one pillow (but that was due to Johnny naturally revolving himself around the Boss, not that he ever complained).

The early mornings of bad breath, the feel of a burned back beneath Johnny's fingertips, toes curling around his ankles because the Boss knew how much it freaked him out. His scratchy beard agianst Johnny's everything. 

But Johnny couldn't do that now. Because the Boss was dead. 

He couldn't look across the pillow and see the face of Saints, the same one years ago that walked into the church courtyard and kicked the ever loving shit of those who thought the newbie couldn't fight. He couldn't see Playa and remember that for the first few months he didn't say anything and the first words he heard was about an STD, couldn't see the same face he saw when they were young and Julius (fucking bastard) was in charged. 

The same face that when he slept he drooled, snored. On nights they spent in the church together Johnny and he would turn the pews towards each other and Johnny would talk about his life, about Eesh. Back then he want Boss, he was Playa and never spoke. 

But Playa turned to Boss, and Boss turned into infinity. 

Johnny was dark the moments he landed on the ground and the French fuck called him. He didn't believe it truthfully.

This was the Boss, c’mon. He survived shots, boat explosions, shanks, fires everything under the sun. He could survive a immigrant and a plane. 

But the days turned into a week, and Pierce was suddenly making him dress in black for a funeral. 

“If he survived why hasn't he called you yet?”

He told Pierce to fuck off, he would call. He had to. This was just a plan to make Loren think he was dead for dramatics. 

And when he did come back Johnny would kill him for making him worry like that. 

But soon Shaundi came and with a few fists and threats she said “He's dead Johnny.” in her own way, eyes bloodshot but not from drugs. 

Johnny sat up in bed, sheets falling to his hips. It wasn't doing much for him anyways. He took a deep breath and reached to the side for his glasses.  
The funeral was held in Stilwater, at home. Hundreds of people showed up, if not thousands. Civilians, Saints, even a few cops. Not everyone could see the empty coffin go into the ground but it was so quiet the sound of the bulk hitting the soft earth could be heard from the closest Friendly Fire. The gravestone said Saints of Saint.

Johnny was expected to say something, anything, but he refused too. What words could justify just how much the Boss meant to him?

He knew his name, reckon maybe he was the only one. He found out years ago and to honestly expected something better then it was.

"So you're Scottish?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Isn't Greenwich the same last name as that crazy doctor who started that discipline camp on one of the outer islands?"

"No. I mean, yes. But no that's not me. My father was something totally different."

"Will you tell me?"

Fucking thing is, he did tell Johnny. He told Johnny eveything and Johnny told him everything.

Johnny was staring out into the city, Steelport. He couldn't go home, he wouldn't. Boss wasn't there, Playa wasn't there. 

He curled his fist and refused go let the tears leave his eye. He felt like he did when he heard about the boat explosion, when he heard that Playa was in it. He searched for weeks on the beaches, in the sewers, the docks. He has to find Playa's body because it was the least he could do. 

But he couldn't find it, and he refused do have funeral. The Saints were already dying, he wouldn't bury a friend just yet. 

Then he found out about Troy and he blamed everything on him. He thought about Lin, about Dex who was.wearing a fancy suit and tie and bout Julius.

Fucking bastard, he knew how much Playa looked up to him. He knew that Playa would have died for even the weakest Saint because that was who he was.

Johnny thought back to the moment he saw Playa was alive back then. It was like the second coming of Jesus despite the fact that he was wrapped in bandages and was being treated for severe bones and not to mention in a fucking coma.

But he was alive and breathing, and Johnny knew it was going to be okay. 

He looked back to the bed, half empty. 

He would have liked it here, Johnny thought. He would have crushed Loren like a fly if it was me who died.

Johnny wished that it was him, he wakes up everyday hoping that instead of purple walls and silk sheets he would wake up in Hell, at least to be with the Boss. Bitch probably shot Satan in the face by now. 

But had to stay, not for himself but for the gang that looked at him for guidance. 

If Boss could do it for how many years, he could too. He could at least tear the fucker.apart who got the honor of seeing Boss’s last breath, heard his last words which was probably “Meet you in Hell.”

Johnny leaned against the window, forehead resting on the cool glass. 

He felt hollow, empty. Murdering was still great and held the thrill but it wasn't the same because he wasn't there, nothing was the same and it won't ever be the same. It was worse now then when Eesh died, because this time he had no one who would understand him the way Playa did.

Home didn't exist, Johnny didn't even think he did exist unless bullets landed in his arms. 

What was it he said? Right, bullets still kill motherfuckers.

Even the Saint of Saints.


End file.
